Mimosa Tree, Champagne Sky
—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, PA
—Artwork by Michael Strosahl, Jefferson City, PA
PERIODONTIST
“the skin of things”
—Jorge Luis Borges
1.
Sitting in the dentist’s chair
Waiting to find out what I wish not to know
Suddenly the poems of Jorge Luis Borges make sense to me.
The dentist will need more time and he tells me this,
Borges’ volume of poetry resting on my lap like a bowl of hard candy.
2.
I saw my bottom teeth for the first time in a long time,
three front teeth like broken fingers.
No, that’s not it.
Like three men, one too drunk to support himself.
No, not that.
A rook on the chessboard ready to fall,
a statue too long neglected,
the sudden tear in the landscape—
yes, that’s it—
and the mule deer over there never to be there again.
3.
Dead spaces like shadow between slats of wood.
Dark spaces gutted from light.
They want from me the one thing I don’t want anyone to have.
Once in a day, a year, the life span of the Welwitschia
everything goes that way.
Forces and motions no longer matter.
Packaging slows the impact of gravity.
The North Pole shifts to Chicago.
Bengal tigers come out to prey.
I am no longer coherent
forgetting before I remember.
4.
and then this thick Novocain sleep—
an intensity in the strength of eyes,
the incredible noise of the cabitron,
dream streams,
popsicles of color,
skinned hands,
graying blossoms of breath,
witch woman
crazy crazy
speak sneak
gentle figurine
hazel glass
implied teeth.
“the skin of things”
—Jorge Luis Borges
1.
Sitting in the dentist’s chair
Waiting to find out what I wish not to know
Suddenly the poems of Jorge Luis Borges make sense to me.
The dentist will need more time and he tells me this,
Borges’ volume of poetry resting on my lap like a bowl of hard candy.
2.
I saw my bottom teeth for the first time in a long time,
three front teeth like broken fingers.
No, that’s not it.
Like three men, one too drunk to support himself.
No, not that.
A rook on the chessboard ready to fall,
a statue too long neglected,
the sudden tear in the landscape—
yes, that’s it—
and the mule deer over there never to be there again.
3.
Dead spaces like shadow between slats of wood.
Dark spaces gutted from light.
They want from me the one thing I don’t want anyone to have.
Once in a day, a year, the life span of the Welwitschia
everything goes that way.
Forces and motions no longer matter.
Packaging slows the impact of gravity.
The North Pole shifts to Chicago.
Bengal tigers come out to prey.
I am no longer coherent
forgetting before I remember.
4.
and then this thick Novocain sleep—
an intensity in the strength of eyes,
the incredible noise of the cabitron,
dream streams,
popsicles of color,
skinned hands,
graying blossoms of breath,
witch woman
crazy crazy
speak sneak
gentle figurine
hazel glass
implied teeth.
Shelter and Blanket
—Medusa, with thanks to our contributors today, Michael Brownstein and Michael Strosahl—two Michaels from Jefferson City, MO.
Even in Death
—Photo by Michael Strosahl
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
